


The Boy Who Threw Himself Into The Sea

by outerjaw



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mermaid, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Drama, Drowning, Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mutual Pining, Past Life Relationship, Sirens, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-12-07 09:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18233261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outerjaw/pseuds/outerjaw
Summary: I have not known it until these final minutes,as I swirl and scream for airand reach up to the hands which close the distancebetween you and I.It is a sweet epiphany.Or perhaps it is more accurate to remember the bitterness.Yes, you held a hand out to me then,just as you do now,and though we meet tonight in deafeningly deep water,I can hear your fingers openly weep:“Please, please—remember the coffee trees.”The past is gone like a tide;fate is the wave to bring it back in.





	1. Chapter 1

He comes here often: to the coastline. Hurriedly rushing out of his café after closing, often early during slow afternoons, Sandalphon gathers himself and camps on the lowest rock face to the water; for every wave crashing onto those rock formations, the noise replays in his dreams, and in them Sandalphon feels unabridged comfort. He has grown up here, telling the ocean secrets that would likely never grace the ears of another person. Never before in his life has he felt so at peace than when he sits at the mouth of this bay, lighthouse in the distance to guide him back home after night falls. The sunset today is still a few hours off, though the chilling breeze of spring tempts him to follow the path back inland a bit earlier than usual.

While most of Sandalphon’s time is spent in thought, or in the yellowed pages of a book, there always comes a time in the day when he cannot help but look out. He is not so sure of what he expects to find under the surface of the water; he has learned through the years that even if he speaks aloud, he is not given an answer, so what, then? As mesmerizing as the light can be while it bounces off of the peaks, and as blue as it is stained even in the distance, Sandalphon can only come to the conclusion that he is waiting for something. And in all the disdain he holds for the sorry life he lives, there is a strange hope deep in his chest that one day, all of his waiting will have been worthwhile.

Escapism can be a dangerous thing. There are very few souls close enough to know even a fraction of his life at this point… Yes, to everyone in this small town, Sandalphon is an enigmatic figure, and as much as select kindhearted people may try, there are none left standing at his side. To be so lonesome...

There are not many others who come to this side of the beach. Most of them gather north of the lighthouse, close to the wharf; just south of the bay where Sandalphon sits is a steep rock face where the seaside comes to an end, supposedly known for its spontaneous landslides during the storming season.  _ Supposedly _ , because Sandalphon has never seen it with his own eyes, and he truly does spend most of his time here— but he enjoys the simplicity in being alone, so he is mostly thankful that others tend to stay away.

...Still, considering the above, he does not tend to glare or scoff when he  _ does _ see someone else. It is not  _ unheard of; _ just uncommon. Most come and pass within minutes, and if not, an hour at most— but on this day, his company in the distance concerns him: the most rare thing of all for the solitary Sandalphon. 

Holding himself in the cold wind, evening creeping with orange tinge to paint the very edge of the ocean’s horizon, he spots a contrasting head of white hair against dark sand. Previously, out of the corner of his eye, he suspected the glint of white to be a collection of shells, or bleached rocks, or perhaps even  _ fish bones... _ but much more feathered in texture. After squinting and focusing, he sees that it moves with the wind. Against the sand, what look like shoulders move up and down in the same rhythm that might indicate  _ breathing _ . A person.

The water’s edge covers the lower half of their body, but Sandalphon can see it now: the outline of a full torso.  _ Who would swim when it’s this cold? _

He stands in an instant, and then he hesitates. The sudden urge to come to their aid is overwhelming even when he thinks twice about it: that they are not in trouble at all, and that he might embarrass himself from the confusing encounter. But with every wave washing up, he swears that he sees a pool of red collecting underneath them, staining the sand and lingering in the foam. And when the pieces click together, he breaks into a run.

Notwithstanding his knowledge of things like band aids and first aid kits (being the owner of a café, he spends a great deal of time overseeing his small kitchen staff), Sandalphon is not sure what to do when he falls to his knees at the side of the injured person. They lay facing away from him breathing almost silently, clearly unconscious, yet defensively holding what Sandalphon assumes to be the source of all the blood. Just below the ribs…  _ What a painful place to get so hurt. _

He can see careful silhouettes of bone beneath the skin. Thin— but no, the muscle around their biceps hint that they are merely  _ lean _ . Like someone who runs, or swims, regularly. Sandalphon figures that this falls in line with finding them washed up here on the beach… but if they had been a regular swimmer, they should have known to wear a wetsuit, right? As  _ truly _ mild as the day is in comparison to normal wind chills of this season, swimming with bare skin in water  _ that cold _ is reckless, foolish, irresponsible.

A deep, uneasy feeling wells in his stomach. He looks up; the top of the nearest ocean cliff is not far off. It is not difficult to guess that with a single strong gust, this person could have landed on the sand instead of the path of rocks that dot the border of the ocean to the steep wall. From well over one hundred feet up, could they have even survived?

Gingerly, he tries to lift them from the sand into his arms, at first cradling their shoulders, and then moving their right arm to—

To…!

The push and pull of the tide slows enough for Sandalphon to see that there are no legs to hold, but instead, bright, smooth scales. They shine a gleaming white against the setting sun, at their very dullest glowing so silver that they look tinted with blue. His hand pauses; thinned streams of blood stain the blend of human skin and a fish’s tail. 

Sandalphon is almost scared to touch them. But clearly,  _ they _ do not hesitate in touching  _ him, _ as shortly after making the discovery, he feels a wet, cold hand against his cheek. 

Weak eyes catch Sandalphon’s. It becomes difficult for  _ himself _ to breathe, but their eyes only flicker open for a few seconds— there is little time to waste in saving their life, and Sandalphon has already chosen to make this commitment. Anxiously, he checks behind and around them before lifting them into his arms. As long as no one else can see, the two of them would be safe.

_ Whatever _ this person was, seeing them reminded him of…

…

There is a hidden alcove further down the coast that Sandalphon rushes off to: a place where the tide gathers into pools, and the break in the seashore keeps most other people from entering. But he is far used to the pattern in the rocks. As a young boy, he skipped along this narrow path more times than he could count, in spite of the many warnings he always received. It is the  _ distance _ itself that wears down on him; with only a fraction of a mile left, and the light beginning to fall low in the sky, he knows he will collapse soon. That ache in his muscles... Pulling sacks of flour and heavy crates of plates could not hold a candle to the extra weight of such a large tail.

His company did not speak, but they could see the struggle in his step.  _ Hold on, _ they wanted to say.  _ The sun… it won’t set anytime soon, but please— _

Sandalphon’s knee gives way, nearly sending them both into the current. The opening of the cave is just at the end of the straight, he sees now, going back and forth from the cave to the creature’s face. With a single look, the creature understands his intention, and is much more forgiving than another might have been when, upon the attempt to stand again, Sandalphon instead loses his balance and his grip on the life he had intended to save. Together, they fall. He cannot remember his last thought; almost instantly, he hits his head on one of the pointed rocks beneath. 

Perhaps it is the coming night tide that intensifies each wave, or the absence of a sandy break in the rocks, but against the sharp edges, the creature feels that their situation is much more dire. Why would a human choose to save something so strange? Something so unheard of? Even if they have the face of a human, it is clear that they lead a very different life— one that this human has had no way of knowing. And still...

The creature cannot leave him to die. With the last of their strength, they swim into the alcove, but not before securing Sandalphon in a close embrace.  _ Sharks are sure to follow, _ the creature thinks.  _ I’ve been bleeding into open water for what feels like hours. But there’s… a shore in here…? He knew all along… a perfect place to hide. _

_ Who are you? _

As they lay Sandalphon onto the flat surface of sand within the cave, they take a careful look down at him. Soft, brown hair. A surprisingly peaceful expression— he had looked so worried when he carried them across the rocks. The hit against the side of his head did not look so serious; they gathered a small bed of seaweed to act as a bandage, to which they began to sing.

In Sandalphon’s dreams, he can hear the song, and he can feel something hot against his head. Blood? No… he cannot feel any pain. It feels more like a hand holding him in place. In the throes of his unconscious dreams, he knows he cannot protest, so instead he lays in blissful sleep. The sound of the ocean is close. 

For hours, the creature sings, ignoring what could only be described as a burning, searing pain in their side. That thing they had been hit with… what was it? A regular spear could not have done so much damage beneath the water’s current, not to them. A creature of their nature takes their very magic from the tide, and the waves… but on this day, they were left to drift in pain.  _ The moon will rise soon, _ they think.  _ It will rise soon and I can make more of a difference for him.  _

_ I wonder what he dreams of all the while. _

_ I wonder what he’ll think in the morning. _

In his dreams, Sandalphon sits on the coastline alone, as he usually does. There is no one to disturb the sand behind him or up the shore. 

Out into the usually barren ocean, there is a head of white hair, and two bright blue-gray eyes looking back. 

He stares out, but before he can blink twice, the person sinks back beneath the water, and the remainder of his dreams swirl into blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spend, on average, about an hour or two editing my work/letting the words sink in. But I've been staring at this draft for nearly a week and decided tonight that I'll never be as satisfied with it as I want to be. It's a little short for an introductory chapter, but I think the others will be longer as the narrative gets more involved.
> 
> I don't really expect this to be longer than a handful of chapters, so I'll at least be finished with it soon. Please stay tuned!


	2. Chapter 2

When Sandalphon opens his eyes, he sees only darkness. For a moment, he considers that he might have gone blind when he went falling into the ocean. Did he really hit his head that hard? Did the saltwater damage his eyes? The possibilities are not enough to rouse a significant response; he is far too groggy, as if his limbs are years too slow for his brain, or vice versa. 

_ Retrace your steps. You went walking across the rocks so you could get to… _ He manages to sit up, though he still cannot see. Suddenly, he realizes that he can still hear the ocean, and that he had not noticed before because it blended so well into the background noise of his thoughts. So now, there is no doubt that he made it into the cave (and  _ had not left, _ for that matter), but whether he  _ floated in _ or—

_ Where are they?! _

He pats the sand around him, trying to find any hint of another person. There is a seashell stuck to his palm, something crisp like a piece of dry seaweed, and shortly thereafter: another’s open palm. Immediately, Sandalphon jumps from the unexpected contact between them, yanking his hand back and holding it defensively. He remembers that their touch had been cold and wet before, but now it felt warm, and soft, as if they had  _ not _ been washed up into a sea cave for a number of hours. 

“You don’t have to act so surprised,” a man’s  _ amused _ voice speaks from the shadows. Sandalphon’s eyes continue to adjust, darting around the pitch blackness in search of any hint of detail, until his gaze locks with the subtle glow of a blue-gray color. He recognizes it as the very same from the figure in his dreams, and from the body he found earlier that day. Sweat begins to gather around his hairline and in the lines of his clenched hand, in spite of the coastal chill. Human eyes could never glow in such a way, but then remembering their encounter from earlier, Sandalphon has already accepted that this strange person was no human in the first place.

Still, as reality sinks in, his nerves are impossible to shake.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the stranger continues. There is a sort of shuffling sound that follows, like something moving in the sand. In his mind, he can picture the silver glistening scales, but the noise registers more like… two moving legs. If he were not so disoriented, he would be  _ demanding _ answers. For now, Sandalphon stays quiet. “You hit your head pretty hard. Are you still in any pain?”

_ Ah, that’s right. My head… should be pounding. But it isn’t. _ “No,” he mumbles, touching every place where he thinks he could have hit the rock. He finds nothing but several clumps of dried blood in his hair, among the seemingly endless grains of sand. “What did you…?”

“Don’t worry too much about it.” Sandalphon, though on edge, nods at the strangely calming voice. Almost on demand, he can feel his heart rate slow, and the crisp air of the spring night cannot cut through the warmth of their presence. It radiates off of their body like the heat from a fire— Is that why they felt warm to the touch when Sandalphon reached out? What about the feeling on the shore?

“Who  _ are _ you?” he says out loud. “No—  _ what _ are you?”

“I’m a man, like you,” he says, “And also… not.”

The miniscule pieces of  **his** puzzling presence begin to shine light on the truth, but Sandalphon is only frustrated by his choice of wording. “Are you  _ also _ a fan of riddles?”

“Only when I meet someone new.”

“I can’t imagine that happens often.”

Though spoken dryly, Sandalphon hears his company laugh. It is something charming, somehow even more alluring than the mere sound of his voice. 

His eyes, fully adjusted to the dull offering of light from the full moon at the mouth of the cave, confirm that the stranger  _ does _ have two legs instead of a fish’s tail. There is no hint whatsoever that scales once took their place, or a translucent fin had taken the place of his feet. But Sandalphon had not  _ imagined _ the events from earlier; certainly not. 

He also does not imagine the shape of his legs, fair lines against smooth sand like a model for a portrait, a kind of natural beauty that is difficult to look away from. 

Of course, seeing that he is naked breaks the trance-like state almost instantly. Quickly, he removes the barely-damp jacket still on his own person and holds it out in his company’s direction, ferociously focusing on the cave’s wall pattern instead of the beautiful stranger. Only after hearing another short chuckle and the sliding of fabric over skin does he dare look back, and even then, he thanks the low lighting that masks his pink-tinged face. 

The stranger does not comment on it, letting Sandalphon believe that his bashfulness is hidden away.

“What happened to you out there?” He hugs his knees to his chest, also wondering if the stranger might reveal his name, but deciding that there is a ladder of importance to the things he wants to know. “I considered that you jumped from the cliff, but it’s too tall to survive, let alone with a wound like yours. And then I saw your—”

A nervous lump rises to his throat. Even the ocean lays silent for a moment, He can feel the other’s gaze bore into him, so he looks away, feeling embarrassed bringing it up. But he has to. He  _ has to _ know. In a whisper, he quickly finishes, “I wondered if someone was hunting you.”

A hum of acknowledgement echoes from the other’s chest, as if considering the suggestion for the first time. “It’s an interesting theory. It wouldn’t be the first I’ve heard of my kind being hunted.”

“...I’m sorry.”

“Oh? Why?”

The strange response leaves Sandalphon sputtering, unable to give a proper response. It does not help that the face he attempts to give an answer is so clearly amused; again, there is a hot feeling in his cheeks. 

“I think you may be too empathetic for your own good. Not many people would look at someone like me and try to help, or apologize about something beyond their control.”

Empathetic is probably the  _ last _ word Sandalphon would ever use to describe himself. He shut himself off from the world by choice. He spends his days alone. He avoids anything unnecessary. When it comes to other people, there would perhaps always be a vast disconnect, ever since one particular day as a young child. 

But it hurts to reflect, so he does not.

“Should I have let you die? Thrown you back in like you were a beached dolphin?”

“You shouldn’t drag stranded animals into the water,” he states matter-of-factly, “They’re often sick.”

“Are  _ you _ sick?”

“No.”

“Well, what about your injury? Do you have a fever?” Sandalphon should have put the pieces together sooner about the warmth and the wound; if only he had not been so distracted to begin with. Infection spreads quickly— as much as he intended to save the strange man, it was  _ him _ who ended up being saved, leaving the other to deal with himself. He had looked so sick back on the beach, but now…?

He half-crawls closer, balancing on his knees. Before he hears any protest, Sandalphon places his palm against the other’s forehead, blinking a few times when much to his surprise, the skin under his touch feels normal. 

“I told you, I’m not ill.” He does not lean away from the contact or make any indication that he is bothered by it. Sandalphon, too stunned to pull away, merely shifts his gaze down to the area where he swears he saw a deep, unsightly gash cutting into his skin. There is a thick band of seaweed covering it like a bandage. If there is any blood stain, Sandalphon cannot distinguish it in the dark.

He slumps back into a sitting position, hugging his knees once again, more so to comfort his nerves than anything else.

“How do you have legs?” Mumbled rather defeatedly, it seems that he asks the question knowing that he is beyond understanding any riddle this creature chooses to tell him, but said creature in question is piqued at the tenacity of human curiosity. 

“How do  _ you? _ ”

There it is. A wry smile takes the place of a proper answer.

“I was  _ born _ with mine. Did you  _ steal _ yours from wayward sailors?” Only after asking this with half-seriousness does Sandalphon grin as well, earning another honest laugh.

“If that were true, I would fear for whoever found the sailor instead of me.”

“Can I at least have your name?”

With consideration, he tilts his head, the following silence almost a guarantee that another request would go unfulfilled. But then, he says softly, “Lucifer.”

“Lucifer.” On his lips, it feels like casting a spell. He lets it sink in before he gives his own. “Sandalphon.”

“It’s been a pleasure to meet you tonight, Sandalphon.”

Has anyone ever said that with so much sincerity?  _ No, _ he thinks,  _ never. _

“You mentioned earlier that you knew people like you who had been hunted. But if you always walked on two legs, no one would know the difference. If someone was hunting you, you could have avoided all of this.”

“Maybe. Or maybe man will always find something that sets him apart from his neighbor. What is the point in hiding yourself, then? If no matter what, you’ll always be found?”

“Another riddle?”

“Not this time.”

Clouds part way just outside of the cave and Sandalphon can see a little bit clearer. The moon, full and bright, shines its moonbeams onto the sand between them, and Sandalphon wants to understand the expression on Lucifer’s person: a sad smile gazing what seems like a thousand miles away. It takes his breath away how unapologetically charming someone can be while simultaneously wrapped in seaweed and smelling of bloody saltwater. 

What Sandalphon says stumbles out almost completely on its own. “It just feels… like needless pain.”

Lucifer does not look away from the ocean, but something in him visibly changes. Sandalphon wishes he could put a name to it.  _ …Otherworldly. _

“Have you ever felt needless pain, Sandalphon?”

He winces, eyes downcast. Perhaps it is not so fair that he has gotten to ask all the questions, and it is only understandable that Lucifer wish to pose some of his own. But this does not mean that he is able to talk through his hurt, especially not with a stranger— especially not with a shapeshifting, riddle-ladden, maybe-only-half-human stranger. He sighs instead. 

Lucifer cradles one of Sandalphon’s hands in both of his own, wondering if he would pull away in anxious surprise as he did last time. But they stay like this for a long moment, Sandalphon unsure of how to respond, and Lucifer unsure of what to say to dispel the pain of the past. It is possible that there is nothing to say, or do, that might banish it away forever. But it is in Lucifer’s nature to cater to catharsis, whether that be for his own purposes or because he knew all along that his heart was intended for empathy.

What an ironic life it is to lead as a tenderhearted siren.

“Please let me take care of it,” Sandalphon says softly, gesturing to the direction of Lucifer’s side with his chin. “I can’t imagine a bandage made from sea plants is going to make you well enough to go back home.”

As much as Lucifer wants to decline, he can feel that the storage of magic within him is dwindling and flickering like a dying candle. It was all he could do to stop the bleeding when they first settled in the cave, but human tissue needs time and rest, as well as medicine— things which he could not replicate with a siren’s song or the ocean’s salt. At least, not in his current state. While he still has human legs… What could be the harm? More importantly, what other choice does he have?

_ More curiously, what are the wounds in  _ Sandalphon _ that I can’t see? _

“I’m rather clumsy when I have these,” his head tilts down while he looks towards the human legs replacing his previous tail. “I’ll need to lean on you when we leave.”

Sandalphon moves to stand, still extending his hand, which Lucifer has not yet let go of. “So you don’t use them often?”

“No, not when I can help it.” 

Together, they walk out of the cave, Lucifer wincing at the soreness around his side, and thus leaning more heavily on Sandalphon’s shoulder. But in all truth, Sandalphon does not mind; he is only grateful that he had chosen such a  _ long sweater _ to wear that day.  _ Please, let us go unseen. This really is a strange sight. _

It is late enough in the night that the only other wandering souls consist of drowsy fishermen and drunkard bachelors stumbling their way back to messy lofts and motels. Sandalphon knows the side streets well enough to avoid these well-trodden paths, though he wonders if the detour is too far for Lucifer to walk in this state. While he seemed fine when they talked before, Sandalphon can see now that his breathing is more labored, and his limp more pronounced.

“I can carry you again,” he says, stopping them both at the side of the road. There is not much room to argue, but Lucifer merely offers a smile: difficult to look away from now that the street lanterns light their way home. It is a more clear view than naked moonlight: the way spare tufts of hair fall close to his eyes, shallow wrinkles not adding age, but charm, instead. Sandalphon finds that he cannot breathe when they stand so close like this, an ache in his chest to be close to something so tragically beautiful—

“I can still walk,” the spell is broken intentionally as Lucifer turns his face away. In the aftermath, Sandalphon takes a long moment to swallow the lump in his throat, but eventually nods and hurries further down to his home.

It is no palace among men or bed to the heavens, but when they break through the threshold, it is clearly a small, homely paradise. Finished texts line a short (but full) bookcase behind a worn-in loveseat. Off to the side, Sandalphon kicks his shoes while continuing past a sooty fireplace, the ledge of which is adorned with several bottles of seashells and indiscernible liquids. There is a darkened hallway past a short open arch, which is where he leads Lucifer now: the path to his bedroom.

The only bed in the small cottage is unmade, and narrow enough to barely fit one person— an astounding feat, as even considering its size, it still manages to take up half of the open space. With a low ceiling, which is a constant for every room in the home, it only barely escapes the realm of  _ claustrophobia, _ though with two people now occupying the space that boundary is even further tested. Sandalphon waits for the complaint, or for Lucifer to notice that Sandalphon has not cleared up the several stacks of books or clothing on the floor (evidence of a lingering depression never truly resolved, though he does tell himself day after day that the most difficult step is always the first one).

Lucifer collapses to the mattress that he is led to without question. 

Sandalphon pulls the sheets up to his waist, leaving enough space to work on the half-closed wound. “It’s too late for me to go out and get supplies, but I can do enough for tonight.”

Though his eyes are closed, Lucifer nods, and Sandalphon begins a careful process of cleaning (ignoring the grimaces that make his heart skip a beat with anxiety) and dressing the wound. He knows that it is going to need stitches, but there is little he can do until daybreak, when he can finally make his way to a pharmacist. Sandalphon does not mention this to Lucifer in fear that it might make  _ him _ anxious as well, but in truth, Lucifer already has the idea that human skin would not be able to heal with a naked cut so deep.

After what feels like an eternity, but in reality has been roughly twenty minutes, a pristine white bandage now covers the angered skin. Sandalphon looks down at his work absentmindedly, listening to Lucifer’s breathing, which has become steady and deep. The weight of the past few hours collapses on Sandalphon’s shoulders; though he slept through a portion of it, this journey has been the most stressful event he has experienced in years. 

It is difficult, he finds, to look away from Lucifer’s face once he starts. Again, all he can think are thoughts like  _ otherworldly beauty, _ unable to consider the  _ spell _ of allure that comes naturally to such a creature of the sea. No, all he can think of is what to do next: where to go, and who to speak with, so that such a beautiful person would no longer have to grimace as Sandalphon has seen him do. So with a siren sleeping in his bed and what he realizes is now two hours until the sun rises (more grateful than ever for the clock mounted just by the front door), Sandalphon shuffles off to his vacant loveseat and curls up in an attempt to brace himself for the next day. 

Lucifer, not truly sleeping, pulls the covers up to his chin. He softly sighs.

_ What a strange man. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (One time I scraped my knee in a salt water pool and when I walked back out like an hour later, the scrape was completely gone. Real life magic.)
> 
> I humbly welcome you all back to my mermaid/reincarnation fusion AU! Thank you for your interest in visiting, and I hope you’ll continue reading future chapters as well.
> 
> I took inspiration for Lucifer and Sandalphon’s cave from Akun Island, which is in Alaska. It’s called a basalt sea cave, which I think looks equal parts ominous and beautiful. Look it up if you’d like to see a visual reference!


	3. Chapter 3

The sunrise lays a bright pink blanket across the horizon, only interrupted by spare shades of purple leftover from the night. Sandalphon does not yet cast a shadow, but he walks with a certain midday urgency— the kind one might expect in the middle of a lunch rush, or a crowded parade. He has always been the unapproachable type, the kind of person who clearly has more on his mind than he cares to talk about (or would ever _willingly_ talk about), yet something has changed in him on this day.

When he had woken up earlier, it is for a spare moment that he forgot every detail of the previous twelve hours. In the fraction of a second before opening his eyes he had no thought to spare for the injured siren in his room, or the strangely non-existent concussion he _should have_ had from falling into the ocean rocks. Instead, he wondered how it was he came to fall asleep on his couch.

For a quarter of a second, Sandalphon was the same as he had always been. Reclusive, strange, quiet.

And then he heard someone step into his kitchen: a small corner of the front room, barely large enough to service a single person. A bare foot against tile. A glass set on the counter, likely filled with water (he never kept enough in his pantry to assume it to be filled with anything else). When he sat up and spun his head to confirm the identity of his company, he sighed in relief, only to become riled up all over again.

“You shouldn’t be up and about so soon,” he scolded, leaping to his feet and snatching the glass straight out of Lucifer’s hand. What he hoped to accomplish was lost to Lucifer, who simply stared back at his host, his hand still posed like it was holding something.

_"Good morning_ is better to say this early.”

Disappointment is not quite the word to describe Lucifer’s tone, but it is close— a funny mixture of amusement that left Sandalphon wanting to _apologize,_ of all things, even if he knew that he was in the right to be worried. But the morning was far too early for Sandalphon to question the influence that Lucifer has so far held over him; everything happened without the pause needed for his human brain to catch up. All he could do was usher him back to bed, reassure that he would only be gone for a few hours, and refill the glass that had already been emptied twice over in their incredibly short conversation.

This leaves Sandalphon, now walking under an ever-brightening sky, wishing that he can _run_ between his destinations to cut his time down as much as possible. There are few places he truly needs to be: just two, in fact. The pharmacist, and his café. But the distance between them is more than a quick walk, and being seen in public is not the easiest hurdle for him to jump.

This small, seaside village has been called his home for over twenty years. He was born and raised here, though _raised_ is a strange word that he finds does not fit him in the least. No, he _learned_ here how to navigate life, the easy and the difficult, without much help at all from others. Never with a mother, and a father only until the age of nine, he can still recall the very day he understood solitude; sometimes, in the heavy shadows of dawn and twilight, he can still imagine the hanging body he found on that summer afternoon, just through the doorway of his home.

As he now closes in on his café, he ignores the stares of early rising mothers gathering water from the nearby spring, just as he always does. They are people who might say he had been cursed at birth, or that being around him was dangerous, and anyone daring to step too close might end up just like his late father; honestly, his reputation is rather bad for business. But his coffee is good, and his current manager fills every corner of the little shop with joy: a young girl with bright blue hair, who had sat herself next to the front door some time before Sandalphon arrived, smiling as she spoke to one of their old regulars.

She turns to him when he walks close enough, her grin uncharacteristic for the unforgiving hour (and Sandalphon’s unforgiving amount of sleep). “Good morning, Sandal!”

_The only person who can get away with calling me that nickname._ “Good morning, Lyria.”

“Hm? You look like there’s something on your mind.”

_I always look like that._ “Do I?”

They walk into the café and immediately begin to clean the settled dust from over the night, Sandalphon’s body language making it clear that there is nothing he wants more than to leave as fast as possible. Lyria does not know how to ask about what he needs, so she instead watches him out of the corner of her eye, waiting for an opportunity or opening to speak up.

She has been working for him ever since the previous spring, and as difficult as it had been to allow another person into this piece of his life, he feels deeply grateful for her hard work everyday. But still… as always, Sandalphon had long ago disconnected himself from others, and that sentiment held little exception— even to the small, worried teenager currently sweeping up the floor. He never asked her why she had wanted this job so badly, or worked so hard so consistently when their turnout was average, at best.

Even if he were to ask, she did not know if she could bare to tell him the truth: that her earliest memories were of watching those two strange boys playing together.

_It’s been years since I’ve seen him… I wonder where he went. Does he know that Sandal hasn’t smiled since then? I can’t even remember his name, now that I think about it. And he looked… why can’t I remember what he looked like?! I know he existed, I know he used to live here._

_You were Sandalphon’s only friend after he lost his father. So why did you leave him too…?!_

She is still sweeping the same area of the floor that she has been for several minutes. Sandalphon would have caught her attention by now, but he is so caught up in throwing the front of the shop together that he barely catches the eye of his baker: an elderly woman, who greets him as she always does, never expecting a response. But he throws a ‘Good morning!’ her way, breaking both her and Lyria’s focus instantly.

_I wonder what’s gotten into him._

“Lyria—”

“Oh!”

He is standing in front of her in an instant, something shining dangling from his finger. It is the key for the door, and he is extending it for her to take, but she stands confused. With no time to waste, in his mind, he quickly explains,

“I have business to take care of on the other side of the village. Urgent, uh—” he looks up at the sky as if it were a timer counting down, “Urgent business. Can I leave the café with you for today?”

When she understands what he is implying, Lyria’s face lights up, and she instantly takes the key. “Leave it to me!”

Sandalphon is out of the door before another moment passes. Lyria shares a stunned glance with the baker, neither of them knowing how to react, but Lyria is quick to get back to work, this time with more vitality and focus than ever. _He’s never given me a responsibility like this… Sandal, I won’t let you down!_

* * *

Lucifer does not dare touch the bandage placed on his side. He is not so familiar with human skin that he wants to test its boundaries; in this state, with his drained energy, he views himself as rather delicate. How on earth he managed to walk all the way back to Sandalphon’s cottage to begin with is lost to him; if he tried the same now, walking back to the ocean, he knows he would not be able to handle the trek.

Not alone, at least. Perhaps on the shoulder of that man...

...This does not mean that he cannot stand in general, however. And naturally he is ever so curious about this place, the small home which has clearly been lived in for a long while. While it does not have much decoration, he remembers seeing a number of personal items in the front room, atop the fireplace. Were they keepsakes? Gifts? Handmade?

Sandalphon said he would be gone for a few hours, and surely as long as Lucifer kept from _touching_ anything, it was alright to _look._ So he shuffles to the fireplace in question, looking closer at the relics that line the mantel. He begins from left to right, looking closely at the composition of the shells in each container: the first is filled to the brim with bleached-white mollusk shells, the second with finger-sized conches, and the last with impressively stacked (and uncracked) sand dollars. Lucifer thinks it a bit grim to comb a beach in search of sea-animal bones like a collector, but he then considers that humans do not view those things in the same way that his kind do. He drops the subject almost as soon as it appears in his mind.

The last two bottle-like objects house an indiscernible liquid within them both, as well as a small gathering of sand lining the bottom, and a thick cork level with the mouth of the opening. Lucifer had told himself that he would leave Sandalphon’s belongings untouched, but he knew he could identify what kind of water filled up the bottles with a single finger placed on the outside of the glass.

...Both are of saltwater, but _why_ Sandalphon has two of them, Lucifer cannot tell. Perhaps in time he might be able to ask—

_Wait, what is that?_

As he pulls his finger away from the glass and turns away, something else catches his eye below the second bottle of ocean water, like it is being intentionally weighed down flat. The bottom of the bottle is just wide enough so that none of it sticks out from the circumference.

_It’s a… feather?_

* * *

At the sound of a ringing bell, a young man looks up from the back counter of his medicine shop. It smells heavily of herbs and topicals, which is typical for this particular doctor: a strange soul who settled in from an unknown village some years before, who has thus far taken care of Sandalphon’s many injuries without the same bias as the rest of the village. Sandalphon appreciates that there is no need to share information that either party would rather not speak aloud, whether that be his own past or the doctor’s origins. A single name, Shao, would continue to be sufficient enough for the both of them in their terms of familiarity.

When Sandalphon enters without an injury of his own, asking to merely purchase supplies, Shao does not create an open forum for discussion. But he is, of course, a doctor, and one with a certain morbid interest in bodily harm that Sandalphon does not suspect other doctors to share (though, not that he would ever entertain the idea of seeking out someone within town to speak to them about his medical needs; he can imagine what they might say to him without much thought).

“So, this injury,” a slight accent caresses Shao’s words, but Sandalphon has never traveled beyond the sea, so he is not privy to its origins, “could you describe it for me? If you _really_ insist on taking care of it yourself, you should know how to best _stitch the seams._ ”

Sandalphon does not return the knowing grin that Shao displays.

“It looks like it was a puncture of some kind. It’s right here,” he points to the lower area of his left half, earning quite a _shocked_ look indeed. “I… don’t think it was that deep.”

Wrong; he had seen two versions of the wound: the serious one, with a beached half-fish man barely conscious enough to keep it from completely bleeding into the sand, and the newer one he bandaged just a few hours ago, clearly needing to be closed with a suture but not bleeding at all anymore, not even a little bit—

“Shallow or deep, you should consider your friend lucky. Internal bleeding is serious, especially in such a sensitive place.”

“R-right.”

“I’m surprised he’s even alive. Unless you wanted to _play doctor_ with a dead-”

“No, he’s alive, thank you.”

“I see.”

Shao seems hesitant to hand over the small container of medical supplies, thinking over ways he might be able to rope Sandalphon into simply making a house call. But no, this is Sandalphon after all, and Shao at least knows well enough that he will not be swayed or convinced beyond his own personal decisions.

“Should I make your total into a tab?”

“No, I can pay you in installments.”

Sandalphon is given his last few bits of instruction while Shao carefully prepares every item in question: needle, suture, topical, bandage, and disinfectant. _Don’t do this,_ and _don’t do that._ When the time comes, he will be nervous, but never as nervous as the _friend_ under his care, so it is important to take deep breaths. If there is any sign of infection, Sandalphon will have no choice but to take _his friend_ to Shao and leave the rest to a more professional hand. While these spare tips continue being thrown over Shao’s shoulder, Sandalphon thinks to himself that there will not be any need for a backup plan, because he does not intend to do Lucifer any wrong.

(He does not ask himself why this task is so imperative, or why he feels so drawn to complete it. Sandalphon is, very simply, overtaken with a sense of responsibility.)

By the time the sky is wholly blue, without a single trace of the pink and orange sunrise, Sandalphon is on his way back home. He ought to check into the café on his way back, if only to encourage Lyria’s management abilities, but when he passes by the first front window he can catch her smile all the way out from the street— bright, happy, serving a handful of customers without a single apparent struggle. Sandalphon has never sat down to consider the ways his life was graced: his income, the help of a single determined girl, the understanding of a nonpartisan doctor... but it dawns on him now that he has more than _nothing._ He has more than he thought _possible_ for someone like him, and now the life of another person completely depends on it.

Without these small gifts, Lucifer may have lost his life entirely. But Sandalphon does not want to consider that.

His home is quiet and dark, just as he expects it to be. The curtains that cover the windows had not been moved in some time; only when he passes them does he double back to pull them away, to let in the light and illuminate his front room. Maybe he is just looking for some sign of disturbance, or that his privacy had been invaded, but everything is as it always has been.

Sandalphon is not too fond of change.

(Funny that he cannot piece together all the change that Lucifer has thus far brought him, so beside himself with determination that even the undeniable charm and exuberance of a complete stranger does not raise a single eyebrow, does not bat a single eyelash. Of all the fisherman's tales he has heard so far in his life, the reality of this very encounter continues to escape him.)

He does not want to wake his company, now fast asleep, who is without a doubt feeling the harrowing effects of every event passed as of now. So instead he decides to wait until he wakes naturally, all the while sitting patiently next to the bed on a spare chair he used when bandaging the wound before.

Lucifer’s breathing is not shallow. The bandage is not soaked through. Sandalphon’s wrist goes to connect with his forehead; there is no sign of a fever. There would be no reason to wake him early, but he is met with the sudden fluttering of eyes, and Sandalphon can only let out a bashful response of nonsensical muttering. If he could piece together coherency, he would say, _How did you know I was here?_ And Lucifer would simply smile, the riddle of a person he is.

“I didn’t expect you back this soon,” a yawn soon follows Lucifer’s breath.

He does not expect that Sandalphon wants to operate on him immediately. The change of pace is so sudden, Lucifer can only watch as Sandalphon moves and opens a foreign-looking kit. “I’m sorry, but the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can keep resting.”

“Wait— what?”

“I just have to close your wound.”

Sandalphon is pleading, utterly sober in his thoughts and mannerisms, urging to insinuate what he is about to do without defining it. But the sudden change in pace succeeds in raising Lucifer’s anxiety, so he sits up as if he can lean away from Sandalphon’s touch. There is little space to do so, but the gesture speaks for itself. Sandalphon understands; he is silent, looking down in apologetic resolve.

“What will you do?”

They lock eyes, Lucifer’s full of fear, and Sandalphon’s full of steadiness. One might think it strange how their roles have been reversed from their previous encounter, but the events of this story will turn out better in this way: with the surgeon operating calmly and the patient relying on such a person to bring him back to health.

Sandalphon has already begun to remove the bandage, checking for the signs of infection that Shao had been so inclined to share. Abscess, pus, discoloration— none of which made home around Lucifer’s skin. One factor of anxiety to file away. Still, he does not answer Lucifer’s question, but the siren in question slowly begins to relax. _It’s that look in his eye. He seems so focused, it’s really—_

He injects the skin with a numbing agent: another suggestion of his doctor. Lucifer nearly hisses at the unexpected needle, but within moments, does not even feel it leaving his skin. There is another dose in Sandalphon’s package, but he does not employ it yet; whether or not Lucifer may need it is up in the air. After all, there is no way to predict a _merman’s_ nervous system.

“If it starts to hurt at all, just let me know,” Sandalphon says in a low voice. The golden light of day cascades around them naturally, like streaks, giving the both of them a strange sense of... peace. A surprising notion when there is no room for error; not when Sandalphon prepared his stitching needle, nor when he begins to thread the suture through Lucifer’s skin.

“I think you’re doing just fine,” Lucifer’s stomach barely moves with the effort of his voice, lending to Sandalphon’s handiwork in making a solid stitch for the wound. Shao had recommended a sequence of broken knots so that if one gave out, another would still be able to hold the skin together: a failsafe. He tries not to catch Lucifer’s expression as he does so, remembering that this process should not be painful for his patient, but fearing all the same that his gaze will be met with a grimace. “Have you done this before?”

Sandalphon pauses between his current stitch and the next. “Not on another person, no.”

They share a moment of silence. Sandalphon laughs, then, an everyday anomaly. “I tried to do this on myself some years ago, but my stitches became infected.”

Lucifer would have sat back up, had he not been in the middle of a very delicate process. “What happened?”

“When I was a child, I was targeted by some of the other local kids. They must have swiped a weapon from their parents, or someone older than us. I never found out which.”

“But you lived, somehow.” Lucifer seems suggestive of it, as if Sandalphon had to have received some kind of outside help. While he did, it is not as if he wanted to _admit it._

“Shao was new to our village at the time. I suppose he arrived just in time to treat me. No other doctor here would.”

He knows that Lucifer most likely wants an explanation for the things he has not yet explained: the other children, the other doctors, and so forth… but all of his energy is spent carefully sewing. Still, in the back of his mind, he waits for those burning questions— the one he receives _instead_ gives him pause. The needle suspends midair. Sandalphon blinks at the two knots he managed to get through, unable to finish the third.

(By the looks of things, Lucifer is going to need another three, but Sandalphon cannot make his hands move.)

“That feather on your mantle, did you find it at the beach?”

_Ah, so he did go through my things._

“I only wanted to stretch my legs, and by chance I saw you were keeping it preserved with the other things from the ocean. I thought maybe you were a collector, but… there’s only one.”

Lucifer keeps a close eye on the very subtle way Sandalphon’s expression changes. _Sad? No, thoughtful. He’s considering whether or not he should tell me. I wonder if he’ll give me the truth, or if he’ll come up with a lie on the spot. No one comes in here, do they, Sandalphon? I’ll bet no one’s bothered to ask you about the little things in your life that you cherish. I’ll bet you’ve never had to come up with a fake explanation._

“It was a gift.”

Lucifer’s thoughts stop in their tracks, his mouth parted as if mid-sentence. _Ah…_

“Let me focus on this a while longer.”

He gives a hesitant nod at Sandalphon’s surprisingly soft voice, bracing himself for what must be a heavy-hearted story. _A gift? The way you’ve painted yourself… I don’t think you’ve been lying about your difficult life. But then, who was it from? A friend? A lover? A parent? Who could it be when you seem so…_

_Lonely?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your encouragement and interest in this little journey! ( ´ ▽ ` )
> 
> Q: In which time period does this take place?  
> A: It's intentionally left vague, but think something loosely Victorian era-esque/equivalent!
> 
> Q: Will more side characters be introduced with casual roles?  
> A: Yes!
> 
> Q: How many more chapters will this be?  
> A: ヾ(￣ω￣; )


	4. Chapter 4

The day has fallen into silence.

In each other’s lap is an empty bowl: evidence of a shared meal, hastily prepared by a gracious host. Sandalphon makes no move to collect the dishes, nor does he move them to the kitchen where they will eventually be cleaned; evidence of a lingering depression, sinking its way into every facet of life that it can, like a viral disease. Lucifer is still waiting for the story of the only person to bestow upon Sandalphon a gift— evidence of deep-rooted sentiment towards a proverbial paradise lost.

By this evidence, Lucifer learns a great deal about Sandalphon. But these are things that he refuses to repeat aloud, out of respect. And indeed, the weight of his understanding feels like it is about to break beneath Sandalphon’s grief; whether that grief chooses to be brought out into the daytime or tucked away for private safekeeping has yet to be seen.

There is seemingly no way to break the tension between them. At least, none that Lucifer can see. He feels trapped here— just as, no doubt, Sandalphon felt his entire life.

Strangely, it is in this way that he comes to a conclusion. “Have you ever thought about leaving?”

Sandalphon merely blinks at him. “What do you mean?”

“If living here is difficult for you, why don’t you settle down somewhere else?”

“What was it you said about hiding yourself away? Something like… no matter what, we’ll always be found.”

“...”

Sandalphon has a point, as much as Lucifer does not want to admit it. If there is something that Sandalphon cannot run away from (or maybe  _ swim _ away from), then the effort in trying to escape would be for nothing. Still, a certain feeling gnaws at him: that Sandalphon deserves better than this. That he was simply dealt an unlucky hand in his fate thus far, but there could be something brighter in wait. This should not imply that Lucifer knows why he feels this way, however; in the end he is just another (fish) person who chose to tread along the wrong waves. But he cannot look at Sandalphon and easily shrug off those apparent troubles, nor can he pretend he does not see them at all. Courtesy be damned, Lucifer wants to know the  _ real _ Sandalphon. He wants to know who this man is underneath it all.

Because there is something there that he just barely cannot place his finger on.

(Familiarity.)

“You never told me about the feather.”

Sandalphon, driven by some unseen force, suddenly stands and takes the empty bowl straight from Lucifer’s hands. Perhaps his nerves simply call for relief in quick movement, like a scratch or a twitch. But then, perhaps he just tries to move in a way that lets him think Lucifer cannot see him, or the expression on his face. 

“Right. It was a gift.”

_ Don’t you know how transparent you are, even when you turn away from me?  _ “You mentioned that already.”

Lucifer, still sitting, looks up at Sandalphon, who leans against the kitchen counter. Can even a siren be captivated by tragic beauty? Clearly— his attention could not be brought anywhere else even if commanded to. Sandalphon feels this focus and consequently feels his heart skip. To tell a virtual stranger his life story…  _ Haven’t I already done enough for you? Don’t make me regret saving your life. _

“I—” he looks into Lucifer’s eyes and comfort rings through his core. He remembers what it was like to look into the eyes of… 

“I had a friend when I was younger. A real one, who would sometimes take me down to the same clearing on the beach where I found you. He was the one who gave it to me.”

“It sounds like it means a lot to you, still.”

“That’s right.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t remember.”

Lucifer blinks, and for the first time that day, Sandalphon laughs. Never having told this story to someone else before, the enjoyment of seeing that twist befuddle another person is enough to keep that smile on his face even after his laughter has died; the concept itself is so ridiculous, Sandalphon cannot help himself. He knows how it sounds, and he knows how he must look. 

That is why, when Lucifer returns the smile, of all ways he could have responded, a tinge of color pools in the tips of Sandalphon’s ears.

“I remember the things we did together, and the story he told me about that feather,” he continues. While he speaks, he makes his way over to where it lay resting underneath a bottle of ocean water, then freeing it from its captivity and returning to sit next to Lucifer. It lays stretched out in his hand. “It’s from an albatross.”

“Oh? I’ve seen them before.” Lucifer takes the feather in his own palm, as Sandalphon holds it out with silent permission. “You saw one on the beach? I heard they’re rare to find out of the sky.”

“He was the one who saw it, not me. And when he handed it to me, he said something about  _ good luck. _ I always just think… he liked stories too much.”

“You don’t believe in luck?”

“No.”

“I do.”  _ And Sandalphon, if you don’t believe in luck, why would you treasure something from someone you no longer know? Why would you keep it? Is it only because it’s a gift? Isn’t there a part of you that thinks, maybe…? _

He wants to take it back from Lucifer’s grasp. This day should not have turned into an argument about something like luck, of all things. So Sandalphon’s fingers touch Lucifer’s palm, seeking his lost friend’s feather, only to be rendered still as his entire hand is encased by Lucifer’s. There is something important he feels that he has to say, though  _ why _ this urge is so strong, he cannot figure out.

“I believe in luck, and that I was lucky to meet you. You’ve done so much for me already, without asking anything in return. So, Sandalphon, please believe—”

Their faces tilt so close together, Lucifer is almost leaning their foreheads on one another, their noses nearly touching. The hair on the back of Sandalphon’s neck stands at attention from the sheer static connecting them.  _ Why, of all things, do I feel like my heart is going to rip from my chest? _

“—that I am happy we could meet.”

There is something he is forgetting. 

It is not in the nature of forgetfulness to be discovered and exposed, however, so all he is left with is a lingering feeling of something  _ unfinished. _ And Sandalphon, the enduring soul, starts to cry. 

It begins as a single tear falling fast to his chin, gone just as quickly as it forms. Tears are always in want of company, though. A second, then a third, follow the release in the span of a heartbeat. He has never cried so openly or easily before. He has not cried for years, in fact. 

Lucifer wipes them away with his free hand, considering that he had pushed Sandalphon too far and that this topic was never his to assume he was allowed to touch. The dilemma between charming Sandalphon’s emotions into calming down or letting the scene play out as Sandalphon could handle it himself gnaws at Lucifer for a long moment. To the common siren, manipulation of that sort was not  _ only _ easy, but also common; it was always Lucifer’s choice to do so sparingly, ever lamenting the existence that preys on those who are most vulnerable. 

The thought of another preying on Sandalphon sickens him.

Within an instant, Lucifer reconciles with his inner desire to protect, to keep from harm, and to help. Whether or not Sandalphon is used to going out into the world and being ostracized, or insulted, or avoided, or bastardized, for some inexplicable reason Lucifer wants to be his point of…

Solace.

“Here,” he flips Sandalphon’s hand so that his palm is face up, and lays the feather back into the hands of its owner. “I won’t ask you to believe in luck, but my kind would look at that feather and believe in it.”

“And what is  _ your kind, _ exactly?”

The close contact is broken almost the exact moment Sandalphon poses his question. Lucifer thinks that the space between them very suddenly feels like miles.

Alone, Sandalphon stands and replaces the feather beneath the bottle it originally lay under. If he is supposed to find another way to respond to what Lucifer said earlier, he cannot think of one, and in all truth he simply wants those pieces of the conversation to fall away as they will. 

Lucifer considers giving a straight answer as repayment for the raw emotions he accidentally uprooted. “...The people of the sea.”

“More riddles.”

“No. You’ve seen it, you know I’m not lying.”

_ “And it explains nothing!”  _

As much as he did not want to become upset, the fact is that Sandalphon laid his soul bare and this stranger had  _ waltzed in _ as if he owned the place— sleeping in his bed, looking through his things. Sandalphon has half a right to channel his confusion through anger. To continue yelling and ranting from his point of view. He feels that he is entitled to it. But he is  _ not, _ and realizes so in the very same moment that he raises his voice. It was his  _ own _ decision that brought Lucifer under his roof, and in his act of charity, he had to accept that he was in no place to put Lucifer into any form of debt. Even if that debt was as simple as an explanation. 

Lucifer stares on, sensitive to the change in atmosphere.

“I shouldn’t be alive,” Sandalphon chooses to go on in disbelief rather than rage, “I hit my head on the rock. You have legs you said you never use. I look at you and I feel like I’m under some sort of  _ spell— _ ”

_ Oh? I haven't charmed you even once. _

“So I’m asking if you can say it in plain words, for my sake.”

“In plain words.”

“Yes.”

It takes a long moment for him to decide where to begin. Most glaring, though, is the way Sandalphon stands by himself, looking rather stranded.  _ Is that how he always treats himself with other people?  _

“Please, sit.” Painfully, Lucifer attempts to shift his position so that he can fully face Sandalphon; the latter complies immediately when he sees the twisted grimace.  _ If he strains himself because of me, I’d have a hard time forgiving myself. _

He begins when the two of them are fully settled, now facing each other completely. Some small ache in him yearns to reach out and take hold of the hand he had held twice now, offering warmth and comfort. But then he decides that it would be best to let Sandalphon recover from his bare, open heart on his own. Forcing something like that would be counterproductive anyway, always best left for when the moment feels right.

And now, the moment begins to lull into a story.

“The earliest memory I have is something like… suffocating. My entire body was shifting around, so it brought me extreme discomfort. Not pain, but… it isn’t easy to change between the two.”

“You  _ have _ been human before.”

“I was human to  _ begin _ with. We all were.”

Sandalphon blinks, and his head tilts ever so slightly— not unlike a puppy. The edges of Lucifer’s lips turn into a smile. “Haven’t you ever heard the sailors’ tales at the docks? Or around this village? It looks rather small, I can’t imagine the people here keeping many secrets.”

“I keep to myself.”  _ Please don’t mention my saving you. _

“Even though you—”

One look at Sandalphon’s expression, and Lucifer merely clears his throat to continue the story. “The ones we overhear the most are about children getting lost in the sea and transforming into sirens. Not unlike… a curse. Cursed to swim for all eternity, and make quick work of anyone listening for songs in open water.”

“But you aren’t really cursed, are you? You still have your legs.”

“That’s right. Sailors and other humans have no idea that we can walk among them. Those that know we even exist barely flee with their lives. Some of my kind can be rather dangerous.”

A memory comes back with bright recollection: back in the cave, when Lucifer said that he will not cause Sandalphon any harm. Before the intrusive thought can dissipate, it is unintentionally spoken. “Will you kill me once you can go back to the ocean?”  _ Did you only say that so I would help you? _

It is Lucifer’s turn to stare wide-eyed, not knowing exactly how to respond. But delaying it would only succeed in causing Sandalphon more anxiety, so he clenches his fist as an outlet of sorts, and forces himself to go on about all of these unpleasant things he has never spoken aloud.

“No. I promise you. Not all of us go about our lives like that. I know a few of us who even left the sea entirely, but even so, we will always be  _ this. _ See—”

Lucifer takes hold of the other’s wrists and holds his hands up just behind his ears, where Sandalphon would be able to feel a number of scar-like lines. For now, they seem to be without purpose, but Lucifer hopes that it is easily implied what they are for. Sandalphon understands just fine.

“— there are a lot of names for it. I’ve seen children being thrown in the waves for being caught with these marks.”

“Is that how the change happens? Will you regain your tail if you go back in?”

“Ah, no, it isn’t that simple. It takes a bit of energy both ways, and considerably more to go back to the sea. We can really only handle it on a clear night, with a full moon, when the magic in the water is at its strongest.”

“There’s magic in the water?”

_ His hair is soft. _ Fingertips absentmindedly trace the strands that fall behind Lucifer’s ears, which no doubt conceal the markings when another is not so close. Lucifer hums as a confirmation, but the noise is dazing in a different way.  _ Does he... like this? _

“That’s how I closed the wound on your head, and how I was a  _ little _ more alive after you woke up.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Sandalphon does not waste a heartbeat in the reply. Neither does Lucifer.

“Neither did you.”

They both look at each other and they ask themselves, why?  _ Why have you done for me something you did not owe? _ Either could have walked away— Sandalphon back to land, and Lucifer back to the sea. But some unseen force draws them to each other, both then and now. To save each other’s lives, and now into a telling embrace.

_ (Who are you? Who are you? I know you, I do, I must.) _

Lucifer holds Sandalphon’s shoulders gently, almost in fear that he could hurt him with brute strength, though he knows that to be untrue. He is simply ready to pull away the moment something goes wrong again. With either of Sandalphon’s hands cradling his face, however, he thinks that everything might go right.  _ Right? And what do I hope would be right? What am I hoping for? What am I waiting for? _

Lucifer does not expect his own pain to get in the way this time. An audible hiss leaves him and he grimaces before the two of them can cross their distance, arm going to support the pained part of his stomach instantly.

“Are you alright?!”

“Yes—  _ hah, _ ” Sandalphon leaps to his feet and helps Lucifer shuffle away to the back bedroom, ignoring the electric feeling under his skin, trying not to dwell on the softness still lingering on his fingertips. 

When Lucifer lays back down, Sandalphon checks the stitches, which look to be in order. He must have pinched the wound when he leaned forward—  _ My own foolish doing. What  _ am _ I doing? What was I thinking?! _ Embarrassed by the event, wishing to turn into dust and blow away in the wind, he throws a  _ Call me if you need anything, _ over his shoulder and immediately excuses himself from the bedroom.

Lucifer, damning his own injury, covers his face with his hands. But there is something else on his mind as well. Had it been a dream? A hallucination? On the brink of death, tumbling along the shoreline, he had seen...

_ That feather… reminded me of a cradle.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this in an airport. ( ‾́ ◡ ‾́ )  
> I've been rather busy but writing this fic is very cathartic.
> 
> I also apologize for how slow this is going, but this chapter officially marks the end of the beginning! In my mind I've already planned out other things I'd like to do with this universe, like making it into a series, if that sounds like something of interest. Other pairings, specific prompts, etc etc. The world is my oyster.
> 
> And how about that mv?! I think I've watched it a thousand times already.


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